6 Degrees of Seperation

1968 – Atlanta, Georgia & Memphis, Tennessee, U.S.A.

April 3rd & 4th

     Standing patiently in the lengthy line, I focus on controlling my deep breathing and channeling positive mental energy.  I’m no stranger to stressful interactions with authoritarian rule, but for some reason this situation feels different.

        Having spent countless quantities of time in various forms of peaceful protest; I’m usually able to enter a stoic state where the environment around me falls away, and time passes rapidly.  Such tactics are not working in this loud, crowded terminal at Atlanta International Airport.

      The frustration of the passengers is understandable.  We boarded the plane a few hours ago, then, just as take-off seemed imminent, were forced to disembark, leaving all our luggage on the vessel.  Not surprisingly, conjecture ran rampant amongst the patrons: mechanical issue, personal illness, supply restocking.  All manner of theories for this interruption, from feasible to foolish, were muttered under folks’ breath as we were hauled off our ride.

       The developments of the past 30 minutes have substantially narrowed the field of possible reasons for the delay. 

      I watch as a pair of pooches, both German Shepherds, sporting brown and black fur coloration, along with perpetually alert pointy years, exit the tunnel ramp.  These savvy animals weren’t brought here for the pleasing aesthetic or acute hearing.  There’s another canine sense which is even more prolific.  Smell.

       I can only think of a few contraband items that can be detected through aroma.  Drugs and explosives.  Though I try to be incredibly modest, considering the prominent public persona I’ve garnered over the past decade, often eliciting fandom feelings far from admiration, I’m guessing the executed search was for the latter paraphernalia.

        After a lengthy discussion between the police handlers and gate agents, during which the duo of dogs sits patiently at attention, activity finally starts back up.  We’re boarding the plane, for the second time.  At least I know where my assigned seat is. 

      I wonder if this security staff found anything.  If they did, I can’t believe they would let us get back on the craft without a more thorough investigation.  Just another idle bomb threat apparently.  An increasingly common occurrence for me; one of these days the risk will be real.

       I’m no stranger to the menace of bodily harm, up to and including death threats.  However, the rapidity of these perils doesn’t make them any less disconcerting in the moment.

       Despite still being 8 months shy of my 40th birthday, if often feels like I’m a few decades older than this middling age.  I’ve lived an incredibly stressful existence, perpetually in danger of violence and persecution since my innocent teenage years turned serious.

        The first verbal commitments to kill were received way back in the mid-1950’s, as a result of my burgeoning role as a civil rights activist.  I found my calling in life early, but it’s resulted in naïve haters clamoring for my life now.  The attacks have become increasingly overt and dangerous in recent times.

      Just last month, in March of 1968, after speaking at a peaceful rally in Greensboro, AL, I was chased by local KKK members.  It quickly became clear this pack was not interested in having a civil debate of civil rights.  As a result, I was forced to hide in a local safehouse as a means of saving my hide.

     Fortunately, there’s many folks, both black and white, who are supportive of my noble cause, which is much less polarized in reality.

     On that note, perusing the list of occupants on this flight, diversity abounds.  A broad cross-section of sex, race, ethnicity, and trade, are accounted for, even with this relatively affluent means of transport.

       After checking to confirm my luggage is still stowed in the overhead bin, as pretty much every returning passenger also does, I settle back into the same seat I occupied a while ago.  Hopefully, the remainder of this airborne journey, roughly 400 miles directly west, which was only supposed to take an hour and a half, goes smoothly.

       According to the pilot’s announcement over the loudspeaker as we finally taxi out, it’s clear the incurred delay was substantial, turning a morning flight into an afternoon one, but, if we get off the ground soon, I’ll still be able to make my important commitment in Memphis, TN.   

        My last trip to this town, a locale I frequent often, was not as productive, or peaceful, as I’d hoped.  This is my chance for redemption.

       Memphis, located at the state border nexus of Arkansas, Mississippi, and, of course, Tennessee, is an understandable epicenter of the current civil rights movement.  Racial inequities and skewed demographics continue to exist in this busy but bifurcated city center.  Making this locale a frequent stop for me and my team.

     The recent issue is a strike involving sanitation workers, which started as the calendar year turned over.  Black employees in this industry are receiving substantially diminished wages and poorer working conditions than their white counterparts.

       An already contentious situation was set ablaze by the death of two African American workers, crushed in a garbage-compaction truck accident at the beginning of February.  Understandably, tempers are flaring, and tensions high.

        In typical supportive fashion, at the end of March I participated in a huge protest event.  Despite my best efforts, this passionate gathering devolved into violence.  Soon after the march began, downtown storefronts were being looted, resulting in multiple young black males being killed.  It can’t be a coincidence that the collateral damage at these riots is always the accosted minority. 

       Still, I put this failure to maintain an atmosphere of peaceful resistance directly on my own already overburdened shoulders.  Which is why I’m returning to this bifurcated metropolis just a week later, in the hopes of rectifying these sins.

       My team and I are in the process of planning a major gathering in Washington, DC, as part of the Poor People’s Campaign.  This ongoing movement is meant to highlight the plight of the underprivileged in America.  However, the recent violence in Tennessee has made me question my own ability to inform and guide the public.  In these dark days, I contemplating ending the entire PPC undertaking.

      But I’m not a quitter.  Which is why I’m standing here, in front of this wooden podium, with half a dozen microphones of various form and function pointed toward me.

          There’s one specific group I must connect with tonight here in Memphis to help regain the peace.  It’s a cohort that has been oft oppressed, and fueled by angst, since the original slaves arrived on the shores of America, after a torturous journey from Africa in chains.  While these physical shackles are no longer present, the metaphorical constraints to living a simple life, let alone upward mobility, are ever-present.

         Young African American men, here and in many cities across the South, are becoming increasingly disenfranchised by my pacificism approach.  The local youthful Black Power group, known as “The Invaders”, is a squad I need to resonate with in this crucial speech.  

       I stare out at the amassed crowd with heaps of pride, tempered by a dose of skepticism.  The folks gathered are clearly interested in my ideas, but will I be able to connect with them in a memorable fashion?  Despite being one of the preeminent orators of my time, these worries often creep in on the verge of a big verbal outpouring.

         I will admit, this is a beautiful setting to deliver a message, be it from God or mere mortals.  This congregation is occurring late in the evening, on account of my travel challenges.  Such timing is a far cry from the typical preaching schedule in this holy place.

       This hallowed hall, the Mason Temple, also known as the Church of God in Christ, claims host to the largest American Pentecostal congregation in the world.  And represents the second biggest collective of religious African Americans in the United States.  Which makes it a critical epicenter for the civil rights movement that I’ve dedicated my life’s work to. 

        The austere exterior walls of white and tan brick were shimmering in the light of the setting sun when I arrived, much later than planned.  But the real beauty, much like with the human race, is on the inside.

           The quoted 7,500-person capacity of this two-tiered chamber is certainly being tested tonight.  Standing room only is an incongruity, as everyone has been standing since I appeared at the podium.  It feels like the attendees are about to explode with emotion, hinging on my every carefully enunciated word.

          I had plenty of free time earlier today to contemplate the content of this declaration, as a result of the plane bomb search delay.  This activity proved fortuitous to reinforce and clarify the story I want to tell.

         I’m not invincible.  None of us are.  But that doesn’t mean we can’t dream.  Or make the most of the unidentified time we have left on this earth.

          Rather than shying away from the various attempts on my life over the years, I’m embracing the risk head on.  How fortuitous is it that I’m still alive, and able to spread this message of peaceful resistance in the civil rights movement, and a vision for a better future state of America, and the world.

         Throughout my delivery, I weave in my closest brush with death, which occurred back in 1958.  Relatively unknown on the national stage then, compared to my current existence directly in the polarized public spotlight, there was apparently a few poor souls who despised me and my motives even in those early days.

         The incident occurred at an innocuous event, a book signing in Brooklyn, NY.  As I reached down to sign the cover for a seemingly friendly woman, she moved in and stabbed me in the torso with a letter opener.  Rushed to the hospital, after a length surgery, the skilled doctor informed me that an incision of the blade just an inch lower would have nicked my aorta, a fatal injury.

        Another reason to be thankful.  A fortuitous blessing that I won’t forget.  I was just a “sneeze” away from dying, I remind the audience, as I list off all the activism activities I’ve accomplished since that fateful day.

         Enough about the past.  It’s time to explore the future.  Choosing my words wisely, I convey to the crowd the near-term risks, weighed against the long-term prospects.  I’m clearly willing to make the ultimate sacrifice to achieve a better, more equitable, society.

“What would happen to me from some of our sick white brothers?

Well, I don't know what will happen now.

We've got some difficult days ahead.

But it doesn't matter with me now.

Because I've been to the mountaintop.”

        At this point in the performance, my cadence, and the engagement of the crowd, is reaching a fever pitch.  Just a couple more poignant lines to go, which fly from my mouth naturally, despite having only written them just hours early, and never practicing the delivery in public.

          Immediately upon uttering the final few words of the Lord’s envisioned glory, I become overwhelmed with fatigue.  I often pour out my emotions in these speeches, but this execution feels incredibly close to the heart, especially considering the dangerous developments earlier in the day.

       Stumbling backwards off the stage, arm raised in acknowledgement of my devoted supporters, who are cheering vigorously, I’m fortunately caught by my colleague before collapsing.  He helps me into an adjacent chair, where I slump down, hands clenched over my eyes, lungs working overtime.

         This is the most fatigued I’ve ever felt after an event, but at the same time I can teel my body is already recharging off the immense energy in the arena.  This feeling of euphoric exhaustion is what keeps me going day after day, rally after rally.

.  .  .  .  .

         What’s that noise?  It’s a deep baritone rumble so powerful that it makes the carpeted floor and papered walls shake.  It’s not an early morning train crossing the nearby tracks.  Or an overburdened long-haul diesel truck chugging down the adjacent road.

         This auditory imposition is simply my roommate snoring.  Yet again.

       My friend and I have stayed in this exact room more times than we can count.  In fact, the proprietor of this fine establishment, the Lorraine Motel, endearingly named after his wife, has jestingly dubbed this basic double occupancy Room #306 our personal suite. 

      Our duo’s rapidity of travel to Memphis, TN is a product of our diligent commitment to the important civil rights movement here.  There’s a lot going on in this part of America on the equality front, or inequality front, if I’m honest.  Hence our presence in town yet again.

        Rolling over groggily, I check the dial of the alarm clock sitting on the bedside table.  Through blurry eyes, it appears there is only hand, until I lean forward and focus, determining the smaller needle is slightly behind the larger one, with both completely opposite the “12” numeral at the top. 

       5:30 AM already!  It feels like I just dozed off minutes ago.  I was incredibly tired after my exciting day yesterday, between the lengthy bomb threat airport delay and the raucous church congregation speech.  I want to stay in bed, but there’s no way I’m getting back to sleep with my pal sawing logs on the adjacent mattress.  Time for a warm shower, then some strong coffee.

         12 hours later, I’m back in our cozy motel room, seated in the lone available armchair.  This time the interior space is much more tranquil.  The only noise is the quiet drip of water coming from the bathroom where the reverend is bathing.  I took the first turn freshening up, having already showered and shaved this morning, I required just a few minutes to wash my face, brush my teeth, and fix my hair.

         We’re heading to a formal dinner event at a local minister’s house, which will be attended by many influential figures in the Black community.  It’s a well-deserved meal after a long day pounding the pavement throughout Memphis, talking with all manner of different folks.

         It’s only the beginning of April, but the famous Deep South humidity is already starting to make an appearance.  Hence the need for a wardrobe change.

           Let’s see how the rest of the crew is getting on?  Rising slowly, on joints that creak and protest much more that their 39 years of service say they should, I shake out my pant legs, then straighten my tie.  I’ve learned to make myself presentable any time I venture out even tangentially into the public spotlight.  There’s too many pictures taken, and assumptions made, these days.   

        The always-diligent local Memphis press seems to perpetually know my whereabouts these days.  Apparently, my reputation proceeds me, despite trying to keep a low profile.  My predictable lodging selection was broadcast on both the local TV news broadcast, and in a front-page newspaper article, this morning.  Both informational outlets that I consumed with my multiple cups of coffee while easing into the day.

       Opening the sturdy wooden entrance of our “suite”, I step out onto the balcony, which is a shared walkway, as opposed to a private porch.  Fortuitously, I’m not immediately accosted by bright flash bulbs and shrill cat calls.

          It seems spending the entire day out and about has quelled the media’s veracious appetite.  At least for now.  Good riddance, I could use a few minutes of relaxing peace before my next community engagement.

        The weather is perfect at this time of the evening, by 6 PM, the sinking sun finally enables a drop of the invasive humidity.  This temperature reduction is a welcome reprieve from the sweaty conditions experienced midday.  It’s only two weeks into the official start of spring, but here in the western Tennessee the telltale signs of summer are already becoming evident, from both a climate and foliage standpoint.

         The construction crew who built this structure were clearly numerically challenged.  Despite our assigned apartment starting with a “3”, this room is on the 2nd floor, at a slight corner jog in the building.  At least their design selection was solid, leveraging tan exterior paint, teal railings and doors, and white trim.

         Moving to this colorful metal barrier, I bend over the bar at my waist, seeking a view of the parking space and patio underneath, outside the room where my colleagues are staying.  It turns out this crew has the same idea as me to enjoy the evening air.

        The quartet huddled below are all part of the Southern Christian Leadership Conference, an organization founded back in 1957, which I’m the first and only president of.  It’s a honest and well-meaning group, making many personal sacrifices for the greater good.

         The 4 men below are diverse in background, but aligned in purpose.  A pair of reverends, religious dedication is very common in our movement for equitable rights.  Our driver, a gentleman not just responsible to getting us around, but also for figuring out the complex travel logistics regarding the entire SCLC operation.

         But the person I’m most interested in coordinating with is the musician in the ring below, who will be performing after dinner tonight.  I had a stroke of inspiration while briefly decompressing in the room, which I don’t want to forget before passing off.

         I wait for the hum of friendly conversation rising up from below to reach a natural lull, before calling down from my stealthy perch above to our performative savant.  

“Make sure you play 'Take My Hand, Precious Lord' in the meeting tonight.

Play it real pretty.”

        Just after finishing this sentence, I sense a discomfort in my right jaw.  My mind naively dismisses this as a tooth ache, proper dental hygiene hasn’t always been afforded to my kind.  However, this theory is immediately invalidated, as the pain quickly spreads to the rest of my body, traveling directly down my spine.

        My neck instinctively slumps down, casting my eyes frame of reference towards my heaving chest.  Somehow, my striped navy-blue tie has been sheared off just below the knot.  Even more disconcerting, red liquid from some unknown source is pouring down onto my starched white shirt.

       My struggle to piece together what’s happening is interrupted by my body completely shutting down.  Unable to remain standing, I let go of the railing, a searing shoulder impingement weakening my grip, and topple backwards onto the granulated grippy coating of the porch. 

         I’ll need to change my clothes before heading out, is my last thought before passing out.  More importantly, it will be hard to deliver a speech with a broken jaw.

Consequence

        At 6:01 PM, Martin Luther King Jr. was hit in the right cheek by a sniper’s rifle shot.  MLK was discovered to still have a pulse, so was rushed to the nearby St. Joseph’s Hospital.  However, he never regained consciousness, and was pronounced dead at 7:05 PM.  There were massive riots across the country in the evenings following Martin Luther King’s death.  This incident brought into question the feasibility of using non-violence as a means of achieving civil rights equality aims.

Complicit

       The kill shot was a lone 0.30-06 bullet expelled by a Remington Model 760 rifle, fired from the 2nd floor of a boarding house positioned across the road, but just 200 feet way.  The assassin was identified as James Earl Ray, a white convict escapee, based on his check-in paperwork.  The weapon, purchased just 6 days earlier, and binoculars, both with Ray’s prints, were found in the bathroom of the rented space.  A worldwide manhunt ensued, resulting in James Earl Ray being arrested at Heathrow Airport two months later, on his way to South Africa.  Ray plead guilty to first degree murder of Martin Luther King on March 10, 1969 to avoid the death penalty, but soon after fired his lawyer and espoused his innocence.  Descendants of the King family, and other modern researchers, have implied various alternate assassination plots over the years, most revolving around mafia business interests in Memphis.

Connection

         Both Malcolm X and Martin Luther King were just 39 years old when slain.  However, these men were much more weathered than their middling age, as a result of challenging life experiences.  Each influential figure was a Black equality activist, but had very different opinions on how to achieve this aspirational goal.  Surprisingly, these two kingpins of the American civil rights movement only met in person once, on March 26th, 1964, in U.S. Senate debates leading up to passage of the Civil Rights Act of 1964.  Interestingly, both their oldest daughters, born just days apart, met up later in life and become good friends, creating a play to honor their father’s passionate pursuits during life.

1968 – Los Angeles, California, U.S.A.

June 4th & 5th

        The bright spotlights in the back of the hall cast sweeping lines of illumination as they rotate on mechanical pivots.  When oriented upward, a twinkling response is incited on the countless crystals comprising the roof-hung chandeliers, creating a prismatic effect.  When pointed downward, the substantial size of the packed-in crowd is revealed, 4-foot-wide swaths at a time.

       Right now, me, my campaign staff, and all my Democratic supporters, not just those amassed here, but across the country, are shining bright.  Tonight, we captured primary wins in relatively inconsequential South Dakota, and here in crucial California, debatably the most important state for our movement.

        While I’m happy to achieve success in any region of the country, there’s a reason I’m standing at the front podium, looking out across Embassy Ballroom of the Ambassador Hotel in Los Angeles, about to giving a celebration speech, as opposed to South Falls, Rapid City, or some other marginally relevant town along I-90 I don’t even know the name of.  Campaign strategic priorities dictate all my actions and movements of late.

       California, with its substantial land mass, and more relevant, population, awards the most Democratic delegates in the country, 7 times that of lowly, sparsely inhabited, South Dakota.  Considering the close nature of the match-up, it’s taken the entire evening to tabulate all the votes.

        The challenge with these acceptance announcements is that there’s no defined schedule for when they’ll happen.  We must wait for the analytics team to run the numbers, based on precincts reporting, percentage ratios, and projected result.  Apparently, we now have the blessing of these nerds to claim victory.

         Time to inform the electorate.  This is the fun part of the evening.  I can tell from the burgeoning buzz in the room, the collective feels affirmation of triumph is close at hand.

       My assentation to the top of the tally has surprised even my perpetually optimistic campaign staff.  I didn’t even declare my candidacy until the middle of March.  In less than 3 months, I’ve gone from not even being on the ballot list to nearly broaching the leaderboard’s top.  With the Democratic National Convention scheduled for the end of August, I still have roughly this same duration to further reinforce my candidacy, and procure additional votes.

     The entire landscape of the race has changed substantially over the course of this spring.  The first notable development occurred on the last day of March, when sitting President Lyndon Baines Johnson announced he would not seek reelection, surprising pretty much every American.

        This bowing out of course put the sitting vice president in the driver’s seat.  However, it also opened the door for challengers like myself.

        My first key task is establishing my ticket as the preeminent anti-war platform, specifically regarding the extended conflict in Vietnam.  My main challenger on this front is a character named McCarthy.  This surname seems to be a recurring theme in my political career.

        My first government run-in with a McCarthy came shortly after passing the Massachusetts bar exam.  At the behest of my father, I took a job as a law clerk on the Permanent Investigations Subcommittee within the Senate, chaired by Joseph McCarthy, of Cold War anti-communism infamy.

        The “McCarthyism” scheme to “root out all Reds” within the governmental ranks was highly contentious.  However, Irish Catholics like my dad generally agreed with this sentiment, though most such religiously-inclined folks were Democrats, and McCarthy a staunch Republican.

      In addition to me working for Mr. McCarthy, this man also dated two of my sisters over the years, making him essentially part of the family, despite him and my father not seeing eye to eye on many partisan topics.  An early passing in 1957, before his 50th birthday, was a shock to our household, but, by then, I’d already moved on legal pursuits more aligned with my own developing value system. 

        Back on the current presidential election front, now that I’ve moved past Mr. McCarthy, Eugene as opposed to Joe, I know there’s a real shot to win, not just the primary, but potentially even the general.

         Despite my late start, with the pair of state victories garnered today, I’ve moved into second place, with a tally of 561 ½ vs 393 ½ points, trailing only the incumbent VP.  However, while this older gentleman’s, 15 years my senior, popularity amongst the general public has stagnated, my youthful persona is quickly gaining momentum. 

      This is the last Democratic primary that will combine public voting, closed caucuses, and formal conventions, to select the nominee.  Which makes any future projections essentially impossible.  It seems like these political procedures and protocols are always changing.

       I’ve had a very short tenure in the federal government to already be approaching the exalted pinnacle point.  As a result, I’m still figuring out this election stuff. 

      I never held an elected public position at any level above business editor for the Harvard campus newspaper until 4 years ago.  My first foray was an incredibly bold one.  The United States Senate, in a state where I didn’t even live.

      With my youngest brother already elected and looking to hold down the most logical legislative seat in Massachusetts, the closest place to home in my nomadic life trajectory, I simply chose an adjacent precinct.  New York.

     Granted, I could have selected a lower profile locale.  Maybe South Dakota, based on my recent popularity there.   Despite slanderous newspaper articles labelling me a wandering “carpetbagger”, I easily won the seat in New York by 700k votes against the Republican incumbent.

        I must give the success of the Democratic presidential ticket that election cycle credit for my success, as they carried this same state by 2.5 million tallies.  As a result, up until LBJ bowed out of the race, I was happy to defer the VP nomination offered up, and avoid this highly publicized post altogether.  How times have changed in recent months.

      My brother and I both won our Senate races in 1964, an occurrence that hadn’t happened in the highest legislative house of the federal government since 1800’s were welcomed in.  Our familial cohort is taking over politics on the East Coast, just as my father always wanted.  Too bad there aren’t more boys to join the fray.  Not that my parent’s didn’t try their best on the reproductive front, per Irish Catholic tradition.

     I was born in Brookline, MA at the end of 1925 into an affluent family.  Both my parents were part of large Irish-American families, well-known both socially and professionally in the Boston area. 

      My father was a very successful stock and commodities trader early in life, allowing him to pursue political aspirations later on, while my mother transitioned from a stay-at-home aide to a socialite and philanthropist, as our generation wealth increased due to productive investments, that were later parlayed into real estate and business ventures.

      Being the 7th of 9 children put me pretty low on the household pecking order.  Fancy food, posh vacations, and any toy I ever wanted, were all well and good.  But what I really desired was more attention from my parents, especially my patriarchal link.

       Instead, due to my young age, and diminutive stature, I was dubbed the runt of the litter by my dad, who spent much more time grooming his elder offspring to succeed him, and carry on the lofty legacy.

       Despite preferential treatment, and a wide age gap, I still had an enjoyable and engaging childhood.  History, politics, and current affairs were perpetual topics of dinner conversation.  As a result, the entire family, even us babies of the brood, were cultured and informed, starting from a very young age.

       Already quite rich by the time I came into the world, I was fortunate to enjoy a well-travelled upbringing, spending substantial stints of time in the Northeast U.S., the southern state of Florida, and across the pond in London, England.  I especially enjoyed my tweenage years in the United Kingdom, where my father was stationed as a political ambassador, but we returned to America at the start of World War II, when I was 15 years old.

       Staring as a freshman back in the United States education system, I went through high school at a quartet of fancy boarding schools; the constant change of venue was not a great way to make friends, but I felt content remaining quiet and under the radar.

     I’ve come a long way from those shy days, where I was hesitant to chat with a cute girl in the hallway, to now addressing packed venues across the nation.

        The most substantial progress from a public speaking standpoint has occurred during my Senate stint over the past 4 years.  During this time, I’ve honed my oration and debate skills.  While knowledgeable on a variety of topics, it wasn’t until this later point in my career that I’ve developed full comfort under the spotlight, and feel confident clearly articulating my message to the general public.

    There are two major pain points within the American electorate currently: the Vietnam War and Civil Rights movements.

      Our country is engaged in way too many ongoing foreign conflicts, most notable of late being Southeast Asia, far afield, and the island of Cuba, just off our southeastern shores.  In both cases, we should spend less time and resources abroad, with more emphasis on improving the lot of our own nation’s citizens back home.

        I know I’m one of the few individuals in American politics currently who has a chance to unite the populus in these tumultuous times.  I’m especially focused on the younger, underprivileged cohort, as this is the neglected portion of society, who can give me the votes I need to achieve victory.  More importantly, no one in Washington, DC has fought for this particular demographic in a while.

       Per proper lawyer training, I have an uncanny knack for being able to balance opposing thoughts, and change my stance on a topic, based on shifting of facts, or changes in perception.  This trait makes me a difficult political opponent, as my priority positions are constantly in flux, and open to change, unlike many older, staid politicians of this era.

       I’ve given talks on all manner of core policy topics over the past few months.  I try to cater each message to the location and audience; talking to a collection of farmers at a Grange hall in the rural Midwest requires a different tact than an auditorium assembly of students on an Ivy League college campus in the Northeast.

        Here in Los Angeles, CA, I’ve been conveying a message of reform coming down the stretch of this state’s primary, engaging mainly with Latinos and Blacks in the inner-city ghettos, while eschewing the affluent Hollywood types with big mansions in the hills.

      Juvenile delinquency is an important topic for me, especially in metropolitan zones where such activities are increasingly prevalent.  I attribute the increase in youth crimes to the burgeoning inequities across modern society.  This theory is tied to my strict stance regarding gun control as a means of restricting further violent acts.

      This pending acceptance speech will emphasis change and hope.  While making progress, our ultimate goal of equality and opportunity is still to be realized.  With the marginalized masses squarely behind my cause, I know the time for the country to turn off its perilous course toward a prosperous future is now.

          As the crowd draws to a hush, I glance over at my wife Ethel.  Unknown to everyone in attendance, except the two of us, she’s 3 months pregnant.  My beau looks stunning in a custom dress, primarily white, accented with a unique pattern of metallic sliver lines and circular shapes, which catch the light in a mesmerizing manner.  I can only imagine how radiating this ensemble appears to the engaged throng facing us, as the pulsing strobes glint off these reflective elements.  

         Switching my attention from her flat midsection to her brown eyes, I lock in my gaze.  An almost imperceptible wink confirms our secret is still safe, and gives me the confidence needed to engage the anticipatory attendees in the ballroom.  Speaking from the heart, with no notes, I set off on my soliloquy of celebration.

.  .  .  .  .

​

        The rear spotlights were dimmed for the duration of my oration, but as my final words are boldly belted out, these bulbs fire back up with their full force.  This time the pattern they trace is more erratic, crisscrossing the room, often slicing through another glowing shaft, illuminating the ceiling and walls intermittently.  However, their primary target is the huge happy horde, still standing, which has been whipped into a frenzy.

          Is this a political event, or a rock concert?

         My final message to the crowd is a request to all my Democratic supporters, not just those here in Californian, who have already executed their civic duty, but across the country.  Specifically in the state of Illinois, the next key battleground for our party’s presidential nomination. 

          I anticipate a trip to Chicago in my near future.  Will I be received with the same raucous vigor there as the recently formed popular classic rock band who has selected this city as their namesake?

        As I finish my declaration at the podium, I realize the clock has crossed midnight, now turning over to a new day, during this short celebratory speech.  Waiting for the vote aggregation analysis apparently took up substantial time.

          Regardless, I have way too much adrenaline pumping through my body to even think about sleeping now.

         I wonder if my brother always felt this much elation when addressing a large gathering on the campaign trail?  I was instrumental in planning his victorious political runs, first to the U.S. Senate in 1952, then achieving the highest post in the land, the President of America, in 1960. 

      Both those fruitful elections played out before my 35th birthday.  For my older sibling’s crusades, I was in the background, out of the public spotlight, deftly pulling the strategic strings to enable success.  Now in my early 40’s, I’m other side of the ledger, with the eyes of the nation squarely on my partisan pursuits.

        Even if I achieve the POTUS post this November, I still won’t beat my brother’s record for the youngest ever elected to this privileged position.  It’s clear our entire family has grown up quickly in the American political system.

         In 1960, when filling out his presidential cabinet, my older sibling appointed me to the role of U.S Attorney General, in return for my hard work supporting him on the trail.  At the time, there were broad outcries of nepotism with this posting, as I was quite young, and had almost no actual courtroom experience as a lawyer.  However, by bro, in his typical savvy way, assuaged the national media, with a simply quip.

​

"I can't see that it's wrong to give him a little legal experience before he goes out to practice law."

       He always did have a way with words, an important skill I’m still honing.  I miss my brother every day, as he was taken from the world well before his time.  He had so much still to give to his country, and his own growing family.  As a result, there’s a decided element of legacy redemption building as my own presidential run plays out. 

        Stepping down from the podium, I’m immediately captured by my handlers.  These days it feels like I can’t even take a singular step on my own.  Between the endless engagements and the security schemes, I’m essentially a human puppet, tugged and manipulated from site to site.  Where are we off to next?

     My preferred plan would be to exit through the grand ballroom, which provides a desirable intimate mingling opportunity with the enthusiastic assemblage, before heading to another gathering of overflow supporters in town.  I willingly embraced these interactions with commoners; close contact with my fans leads to lasting connections, and more vote commitments.

       Instead, the campaign aides who rush forward as I descent the steps inform me the logistics team, in their infinite wisdom, has decided the more efficient plan is to gather the press here in the lobby of the Ambassador Hotel.

        This scheme will provide recorded video camera messaging, disseminated via television news networks, enabling the opportunity for much broader media reach.  These string-pulling strategists are the experts; I’m clearly just a pawn in this grand game.

     As a lowly first-term senator, despite my rapid rise to stardom on the national presidential stage, I’m still only afforded a lone FBI agent to secure my safety.  As such, I travel with a pair of personally hired bodyguards, both of whom are former athletes.

       Having made it through basic training in the Navy, and playing varsity football at Harvard, I feel comfortable taking care of myself. 

      Granted, I was in the Naval Reserve V-12 officer program, with middling physical requirements to supplement my classroom tactical training.  And my brief NCAA career as a lineman was cut when I incurred a broken leg in early season practice, negating participation the essentially entire senior campaign, aside from one late-game experience where the accommodating coach put me in to earn my last letter.

     Average.  Middling.  Normal.  Those are all appropriate descriptors for my athletic prowess.  I’m a friend, not a fighter.  Thus, I don’t mind a little extra security help.

        Protected by a gold medalist in decathlon, and college football all-American defensive tackle, I feel quite secure.  But in some situations, having 500 pounds of toned muscle flanking you is overkill.  As it turns out, we’re in for a narrow, circuitous path to the press corps, that necessitates single file.

       Leadership of this prominent procession has switched from my campaign manager to the hotel’s maître de.  Good thing someone who knows the lay of the land is in charge, as several audibles to the plan must be made along the way.  After being blocked attempting to pass through the swinging doors into the rear corridor, by another gaggle of admiring fans, we quickly get rerouted.  Directly through the kitchen, as it turns out.

       I’ve been going non-stop on this whirlwind of a day for over 18 hours straight, but quickly realize the intent of this detour is not to grab a quick snack.  This basement level is one of the only zones of the facility which the general public doesn’t have easy access to. 

      Here, in the remote bowels of the building, a zone focused on generating culinary creations to support one of the fanciest hotels in town, with both the exterior and interior already swept by security, I feel completely comfortable walking alone.

        Besides, these food workers are my people, from the European immigrant turned 4-star head chef, to the Mexican migrant dishwasher.  These are the dedicated folks that keep the American economy ticking, and deserve a viable path to ascend the economic ladder in this nation’s stratified society.    

       I’m very relaxed when networking with the commonfolk.  This amiable approachability, regardless of motive or means, have been core tenants throughout the campaign.  Now, I’m in my happy place, amongst important supporters.

         I’ve always sought to cater to the needs of the people, and listens to their demands.  Rationality and flexibility are my political calling cards.  Workers in kitchens like this are bread and butter support group; I strive to feed their fire at any opportunity.

      As we weave between sinks and stoves, meats and meringues, cups and countertops, appetizers and aperitifs, I frequently pause to shake hands with diligent laborers.  Their palms are offered up in various formats: gloves and greasy, dry and diminutive, slippery and sweaty, nervous and needed.  I grasp every outthrust paw with the same firm vigor, regardless of who’s arm the appendage is attached to.

       Inevitably, once my personage is fully recognized, the approaches change from timid waves to total wanderlust.  Soon, rolled posters, with my ugly mug printed on them, are being passed my way.  These must have been gathered up during party clean-up, left by drunken donors who forgot their souvenirs.  At least the marketing plan is working.

        No self-respecting politician worth their salt denies an autograph, and even more importantly, neglects to carry a pen on their person, should an opportunity present itself.  Another one of my acquired skills is walking, talking, and signing all at the same time.  I’m a real multitasker at this point. 

         All the sudden, we reach a chokepoint in the galley journey, caused by a pair of equally large in size, but completely opposite in functionality, machines: an ice maker and a steam warmer.  As I squeeze through the gap, a young Hispanic lad clad in a dinghy white smock characteristic of a busboy extends his fingers out, both to guide me through the narrow opening, and likely to shake hands with a burgeoning idol.  A helpful little guy indeed.

       The next rolled-up poster, which I spot out of the corner of my eye, as I rotate left to wriggle through the tight confines, turns out to be the last I’ll every reach for, or personalize.  From the innocent end of this paper tube a fiery explosion is expelled.

        Initially, I perceive this stunt like the spotlights in the ballroom earlier, brilliant flashes at erratic times meant to heighten engagement. 

        However, this special effect proves all too real, as visual stimulation is accompanied by physical encumbrance.  A sharp pain in the side of my skull, followed quickly by another in my neck, and a third under the armpit, cumulative effect causing uncontrollable, full body, convulsions.

         Am I having a seizure?  I’m not familiar with any such history in my genealogical tree, but we haven’t exactly been blessed in recent years.

         It turns out the new impulse is external, as opposed to internal.  The origin source takes me much longer than it should to recognize.  I had access to, and trained with, many types of firearms during my stint in the Navy.  Watching in horror, the flimsy paper falls away from the barrel of a gun, leading edge charred and flaming, the emitted noise incredibly loud, on account of the weapon being just inches from my ear.

       I’ve definitely been shot multiple times, considering the assailant waited until he was basically touching me to unleash his barrage.  That poster ploy was a brilliant strategy to lure me in.

         As I collapse to the ground, I summon my protectors to swarming the devil, intent of having them capture his deadly weapon.  “Take him down”, is all I came muster up, a mental contemplation, as opposed to a verbal utterance, as my own path downward is already in progress.

        Muzzle flashes and pistol retorts continue, even as my bodyguards bum rush the assailant.  Considering their substantial size compared to the slight-statured shooter, I have no doubt this duo will bring him down.  If they don’t get shot first.

           Finally, after several more merciless rounds are released, the attacker is brought to heel.  The loud cracks from the revolver are now replaced by shrieks of the injured, as the man with the gun was firing randomly until being overpowered.

         I’m unable to raise my head off the floor, to check on these other casualties.  It seems the bullets have damaged something in my spine, as I’m having an odd out of body experience, where I can see my hands and feet, but have no ability to articulate them.

          The first character to my side I don’t recognize initially.  Then, as his face gets closer, I connect the dots.  The boy who was helping me squeeze through the machinery before the incident occurred.  While earlier he was smiling and cheery, I immediately see his demeanor has changed somber, bordering on terrified.  I must look pretty bad, lying here prostrate, full of bullet holes, bleeding out on the tile.

          Next to arrive is my assigned FBI agent, who, sensing I’m unable to move, generously removes his jacket, and places it under my head.  Perfect, at least now I have a little better view of the world, rather than staring straight upward.  I’m worried about others, and want to making sure everyone else in the area is safe.  Not that I’m personally able to do anything to care for these folks in my paralyzed state.

        The individual I really want to check on is my wife.  Where has she gone?  Was she injured in the chaos?  I know Ethel left my side after the speech to connect with a few key donors in the ballroom contingent.  Hopefully she remained upstairs, well away from this crazy character.

          As a prosecutor, I was always interested in catching and trying criminals.

         During my time working in the Senate, first as a chief counsel on the Senate Labor Rackets Committee, and now as a sitting legislative member, I put a heavy emphasis on cracking down upon organized crime.  The highest profile case during my tenure, a trial that became heavily publicized and politized, was calling out Jimmy Hoffa and the Teamsters Union for financial corruption within their massive pension system.  A court battle which I resoundingly won.

        I’ve levied racketeering charges against various high-ranking government officials, who have been deemed part of, or enabled by, the mighty American mobs.  No one is above the law, or out of its powerful reach.  That’s how the United States judicial system works.

      Getting a conviction on my assailant should be simple, considering the overt nature of the heinous act, with all manner of witnesses, and already having the suspect in custody.

        But what was the motive?  Sure, I’m not universally liked in this country.  Still, to shoot someone at point blank range, clearly with intent to kill, requires true hatred.  Maybe once I recover, I’ll be able to do some interrogation work as this case goes to trial.  If I recover that is, an outcome which will differentiate the charge between assault and murder.

       I’m definitely not ready to die.  In fact, it feels like I’m just hitting my stride in life, both professionally, and especially personally.

           In traditional Irish Catholic fashion, even though our culture has evolved well beyond needing extra pairs of hands in the potato fields, my wife and I have created quite a large brood.  I’ve already surpassed the tally of 9 achieved by my parents, with our 10th child born last year.  Plus, there’s another on the way in Ethel’s womb, that we just learned about.  I guess I won’t have the chance to make it to a baker’s dozen.  But have amassed a nice mix, including 7 boys, to carry on my legacy.

          Suddenly, a shimmering visage appears in front of me.  Is this ghostly apparition real, or am I headed to heaven?  As the object crystalized in my struggling mind, I’m able to make out key elements.  Horizontal lines.  Circular rings.  Polygon shapes.  Curvy arcs.  All on a background canvas of bright white.  The figure moves closer, becoming clearer, and enabling recognition.  My wife, in her beautiful sleeveless evening gown.  Even in my diminished state, I recognize that unique pattern and profile.

           Bending down gently, she places her hand to my head, a warm palm on a cold cheek.  I’m unable to feel this tender touch, but can see the compassionate worry in her face.

           A consummate caretaker, sensing my plight, she rises and shoos the encroaching bodies around back.  Yes, some air would be great.  And some medical aid.  “Thanks Miss.”

         While my motor skills aren’t working, at least I can still hear.  There’s a lot of commotion in this congested space, but it sounds like my campaign manager used the established press station to summon doctors over the live TV broadcast.  That’s some clever thinking, and explains why help is able to arrive so quickly.

          Here comes a stretcher; it looks like they’re going to try moving me.  This may not be a good idea with my damaged spine.  However, before I can inform the support crew not to lift me, they’re already making the transfer.

          Immediately, what used to be a numbing sensation in my back has transitioned to a searing pain, running the entire length of my spine.  I’m not sure I can handle the agony much longer.  It feels like my head is severed from my body, with my brain convulsing in a series of sharp pangs.  This can’t be good.

      As I contemplate the end of my own life, it becomes clear why my siblings and I have been such successful politicians.  A unique juxtaposition of ambition, personified by constant pursuit of the greater good, mixed with personal pessimism, inevitable based on our tragic familial past.  Being part of this lineage is both a blessing and a curse.

        I feel bad for my father Joe, as the great household he created has endured some true tragedy.  With my pending passing, this patriarch has now outlived his 3 eldest sons, leaving only one left.  There must be some sort of curse associated with this lineage.  Or just the typical Irish Catholic bad luck.

         The death of his eldest and namesake son, Joe Jr., occurred during an autonomous aircraft training mission as part of World War II, way back in August of 1944.  That unexpected loss was a substantial shock to everyone, especially my dad.  An unintended consequence was that my patriarch paid more attention to me, not even 20 years of age at the time, after the accident.

          Regardless of this increase support, which I decidedly craved, no one in their right mind would wish for the death of their brother.  I mourned deeply, with the rest of us remaining siblings.  I wonder how my surviving quintet of sisters will handle my passing?

        My next coherent recollection occurs some unknown period of time later.  I seem to have been transported to a hospital, but have no memory of getting here.  I’m sure they procured an ambulance for me, but I must have passed out while being loaded up.  Understandable, considering the incredible discomfort, my body likely just shut down as a protection mechanism.

          As I regain my senses, the reason for my reawakening becomes clear.  A doctor is standing over me, slapping my face vigorously, and yelling my name loudly.  I think.  While these palm swats should be stinging my cheek, I barely even notice the impact.  And though the surgeon’s lips are moving substantially, I can hardly hear the words being emitted.

         There’s another medical professional laboring away slightly lower down my body.  He appears to be performing some modified massage procedure on my chest, either to get the heart or lungs going again.  Stoppage by either of these key organs must be why I went unconscious.  Whatever this expert is doing seems to be working, as I’m now back on the right side of the dirt.

      Apparently, content with their work, both doctors stop their simultaneous activities, and step back from me, disappearing from my narrow field of vision.  The next visual imposition is a very welcome one.  My wife Ethel, whose short blonde hair I recognize instantly.  She puts her ear to my chest, as if listening for something.  Then, a supplemental utensil is handed to her, which she dons, holding the free end to my left pectoral muscle.  A stethoscope, meant to detect my beating heart.

         “I’m here Honey!”, I try to cry out, but my mouth, like the entire rest of my body, is completely incapacitated, unable to use no matter how hard I try.  My spouse’s lovely head moves from my torso up towards my face.  Intuition is strong with us, after almost 2 decades of marriage.

           How can I communicate with this woman how lovely she is.  Our eyes lock, and I summon all my menial remaining strength to focus movement towards a single muscle of the body.  My right eyebrow.  A lone wink will demonstrate to her I’m still coherent.  Did she get my message?  

         The next thing I feel, a capability I was thought lost permanently, are soft lips pressing against mine.  Again, many years have created an unbreakable bond.  I recognized the sensation even with my heavily diminished faculties.  My wife Ethel is kissing me.  Everything will be OK.

​

Consequence

        After a 4-hour surgery, Democratic Presidential nominee Robert F. Kennedy’s condition failed to improve, despite extensive neurosurgery efforts to remove bullet and bone fragments from his brain.  He was pronounced dead at 1:44 AM on June 6, nearly 25 hours after the shooting.  5 other folks in the kitchen, including members of the campaign staff and local media, were also injured during this barrage of gunfire, 8 total shots fired from a 0.22 long rifle caliber Iver Johnson Cadet 55-A revolver.

         National TV coverage was slow to capture the incident, which occurred in the middle of the night East Coast time; it wasn’t until the next morning’s news that the American public found out about the tragedy.  Photographer Bill Eppridge captured many very compelling pictures, while covering the entire last night of RFK’s life.  This assassination led to the Secret Service taking on the additional task of protecting presidential candidates while on the campaign trail.

​

Complicit

         The lone gunman, captured in the kitchen, was named Sirhan Sirhan.  He held strong pro-Palestinian beliefs, which provided the motive for the assassination; he plotted an ideal killing scheme for multiple decades.  Sirhan was a Jordanian Arab, with a deep-rooted hatred against his historical religious nemesis, Israeli Jews.  Even though the Kennedy family was not part of this religious sect, RFK did support Israel’s independence formally as a politician.  Sirhan Sirhan admitted guilt in court, and was sentenced to lethal injection in 1969.  However, the death penalty was deemed illegal by the California Supreme Court in 1972, resulting in Sirhan spending the rest of his life in prison; he’s currently 80 years old.

Connection

        Robert F. Kennedy was on the campaign trail trying to earn the Democratic presidential nomination when he learned of Martin Luther King’s death.  Already scheduled to give a speech in a predominantly Black region of Indianapolis, IN, he reworked his planned lines to inform the crowd of this atrocity.  Robert referenced the recent assassination of his brother Jack, and urged the Black folks in attendance not to incite violence against their White countrymen.  This is considered one of the most influential speeches in American history.

           The RFK homicide, the 4th of a prominent American figure in just 5 years, brought into question the stability of the entire societal functioning across the United States.  Many surmise that the overt exposure of the American public to violence, notably through newspaper and television coverage of the Vietnam War, was a key factor that led to the multitude of assassinations in the U.S during the 1960’s.  Another linkage is the incredible amount of confusion, skepticism, and all manner of conspiracy theories regarding this quartet of killings, which is surprising considering the substantial public persona, and associated surveillance protocols, associated with each of these celebrities.

1970 – Montreal, Quebec, Canada

October 16th & 17th

        I think back to what I could have done to avoid getting kidnapped.  Not much, if I’m honest.  I wasn’t exactly putting myself at risk.

       The incident started during a relaxing Saturday afternoon, unseasonable warm for mid-October in eastern Canada.  As a result, I was playing outside in the yard with my nephew.  While my wife and I haven’t been able to bring a child into the world, not for lack of trying, we have lots of close family in the area.  This little guy is one of my favorite relatives, representing the next generation.

     We were tossing a football in the yard, not that silly all-brown-leather American version, or even worse the pentagonal-panel round ball European model, but good old Canadian football with white stripes on each end.  My nephew is growing so fast that I have trouble ascertaining how far he can throw each time we meet.  This fateful day, I drastically underestimated his burgeoning strength.

       As I chased after the ball, which wobbled away awkwardly, due to the odd elliptical shape of the object, I noticed some commotion out on the street.  My neighborhood is quite affluent, large houses on sprawling lots, both buildings and grounds neatly manicured.  Not the type of environment when trouble usually occurs.

        This nice residence is afforded by my various posts atop the Canadian government hierarchy, combined with some very successful business ventures, that are tangentially related to my political positions.

     I’ve never felt the need for a bodyguard, especially while at home, which represents a secluded sanctuary for my spouse and I, a welcome reprieve from the chaos of permanently being in the public spotlight.  Sure, in the middle of a raucous protesting throng, a recurring theme these days, I’ll take any police presence offered up.

      In hindsight, maybe I should consider protection in my private life as well.

      Bending down to retrieve the inflated object, I rose and found my personal space invaded.  By a masked man pointing a machine gun at me.  So much for this safe suburban community.

     Within seconds, I’m ushered into a black van with tinted windows, which definitely wasn’t parked here when my young friend and I came outside to run around.  As the sliding door closes, my last vision is the little lad standing in the center of the grassy yard with a confused scowl on his face.  His influential uncle has apparently been summoned, so playtime is over.

     Is this a random act?  Have I been targeted?  What do these assailants want?  Where are we heading?  Can they be bought?

      All these questions bounced around in my mind as we drove, seemingly aimlessly.  The cloth sack placed over my head not only smelled like moldy burlap, but also completely obscured my vision.  A bag formerly used for malted barley, maybe.  I could have really used a beer in that moment.

        It’s pretty clear, based on recent new stories, and intermittent conversation with my captors, who the opposition is.  The Front de Liberation du Quebec, colloquially known as the FLQ.  This rogue group is seeking to establish Quebec as an independent socialist state separate from broader Canada.

     Earlier this month, the British trade minister commissioner in Montreal was kidnapped by this same sketchy organization.  This absurd act last week resulted in me calling the abduction, and the entire movement underlying it, a “wind of temporary madness blowing across Canada.”

       With the benefit of retrospection, maybe having such audacious words printed in the public tabloids may not have been wise.  And likely led to me being targeted as the next victim, just 5 days later.

        The masked journey, which I estimated to be 20 minutes in length, covered both surface streets and highways, with lots of turns.  Other than being confident that we didn’t cross any of the major bridges that span the St. Lawrence River, a key waterway bisecting Montreal, I don’t have much of an idea where I’ve been deposited.

        The house is very quiet, definitely not downtown, and potentially bordered by woodlands, based on the propensity of bird calls each morning.  Another auditory anomaly is the intermittent take-off and landing of planes; there’s clearly an airport nearby. 

       Over the past several days, I’ve created a mental map of my surroundings.  Which is pretty difficult, as I’ve been blindfolded the entire time, even when taking the meager meals served up to me.  Thus, my knowledge of room’s layout is based entirely on feel, slowly inching my way around the floor, which is thinly carpeted, and the walls, which are smooth enough to be either painted or papered.

         My exploration of the space is limited by the tether attached to my right leg.  A length of chain, I surmise, based on the substantial heft and metallic clink that occurs any time I move beyond a certain radius.

        This anchor point has provided a frame of reference for my entire blind meandering.  Any time my captors are out of the room, I’m on the move, crawling, rolling, and inching outward from the static center.  The mounting hub itself occupied the entire first day on my research, simply trying to determine what I’m connected to, and what’s in close proximity.

         I’m apparently attached to the underside bar of an impressively heavy sofa; this must be a sleeper.

        Since then, I’ve used a clock-based system to enable landscape memory, with the front face of the futon referenced as high noon.  This organizational scheme doesn’t help me keep track of actual time, but does enable mapping of my surroundings, albeit at an incredibly slow rate of documentation.

        If there is a camera in the room, either my captors don’t care about my tentative adventures, or they spend their free time laughing at my absurd unseeing exploits.  Considering I’ve never been reprimanded for thrashing around, at this point, 6 long days into captivity, I assume I’m alone and unwatched when the chamber is empty.

       While my blindfold is very thick, between the delivery schedule of meals, and the general cadence of my bowels, even though I’m not always allowed to take care of the urge, I’m able to maintain a rough timeline of day and night.

      With a small desk lamp on the side table by the couch staying on permanently, there’s no connection to the solar cadence in here, aside from a tall window, that’s completely covered with a dark curtain.  The only door access out of this living room seems to be located way out of my reach, making this glassy pane my only link to the outside world.

        On that note, it’s currently about as bright as my blocked eyes get, suggesting early afternoon here in the fall.  Maybe the sun is even shining vibrantly, which would be a vast departure from my somber circumstance.

      Suddenly, an opportunity presents itself, in the form of an immediately recognizable sound.  A siren.  Going on nearly a week without the use of sight, it seems like my senses of sound and touch have become more acute. 

      Is the noise getting quieter or louder?  Is the emergency vehicle moving away or towards my hidden location?  Listening closely, I confirm the positive alternative in both regards.  This response unit is certainly headed my way.

        I can’t risk letting the police miss me.  This is the first sign of law enforcement I’ve experienced since being on the political campaign trail last Friday, before heading home for the weekend.

       There’s only one way out of this makeshift prison.  Through the exterior window.  I’ve paced the distance to this panel off many times; I still have roughly 1.5 meters of additional rope, so to speak.  Which should be fine, if I’m on the ground floor of the house.  If I’m located upstairs, this escape plan may be short-lived.

       I’ve wrenched at the lock securing my metal chain around the structural beam of the sofa many times.  It’s never budged.  But maybe my entire body weight will break this bond loose.  There’s only one way to find out. 

       Moving over to the window with purpose, which sits at 10 o’clock on my makeshift coordinate system, I used both hands to frame up the opening.  I then inch backwards on my knees in a straight line to the full extent of my restraint, and rise to my feet.  May as well get a running start, and a full head of steam, for this exit.

       As soon as I impact the thick wall of glass, momentum hindered by the heavy cloth curtain, I realize I’ve made a miscalculation of strength.  For a moment, it feels seems like I won’t even make it through the encumbrance.

       Then, the breakable barrier gives way, not with a complete collapse of the entire pane, but rather in a cascade of cracking, which leaves sharp shards still attached to the outer frame.  As I pass through the jagged hole, head first, then torso, and finally my feet, I can feel various parts of my skin getting caught up briefly, then torn off.

       This escape plan may have been a bad idea.  A sentiment that doesn’t even begin to describe the full extent of the foolishness, as the next few agonizing seconds play out.

       As soon as my entire body is finally free from the building, the next issue materializes.  I wasn’t in a room on the ground floor, as below me lies the sloping shingles of what I perceive to be a porch roof.  Even before I can brace for impact with this slanted surface my entire frame is wrenched taught.

       All the sting of deep cuts on my hands and ribs are now forgotten, replaced by a new searing pain, emanating from my right leg.  It takes only a split second to realize the issue.  My tether has tightened, the shackle around my right ankle arresting the entire brunt of the fall.  It feels like my shin bone has just snapped in half. 

       The only benefit of this terrible tumble is that the sudden jolt has jarred my blindfold, enabling one eye to now be functional.  Twisting my shoulders and head around in an excruciating effort, a get my first look at the outside of the home I’m being held within.  A standard enough white residence, with a small yard, located on a narrow street.

        I’m now hanging upside down below the framed opening, mangled and mutilated.  I can reach the roof if I extend my arms, but the steep pitch and my bleeding fingers, primarily the left wrist and right thumb, make gaining any purchase to lift myself impossible. 

      Meanwhile, a gash across my chest, right through my shirt and skin, makes flexing up the reach the windowsill a herculean feat, even if I did have 6-pack abs.  I’m stuck here, until I bleed out, or pass out.

      Mercilessly, between loud noise of glass shattering, and the uncontrollable yelps of pain coming from my failing lungs, my captors’ arrival to the scene is swift.  Grabbing the sturdy chain, they haul me back inside, with zero fucks given to the injuries I sustained during the fall.  Apparently, this ruthless bunch is more worried about not being discovered than protecting their important captive. 

       Back in the building, still restrained, blindfold repositioned, I collapse onto the coarse carpet.  The noise of the sirens outside is no longer audible, as a new steady cadence has taken over.  My ragged breathing and throbbing heart.

.  .  .  .  .  .

        My groggy stupor, somewhere between awake and asleep, living and dead, is disturbed.  Not as much by a noise, as my eardrums are swollen and throbbing, but through feel on my face, which is also bloody and plumb.  However, the latter skin is very tender and sensitive, as opposed to the former appendages, which are numb to the point of uselessness.

       Despite diminished faculties, I perceive my raw cheek is pressing against carpet covered wooden floorboards, that creak and vibrate at the slightest engagement.  Based on the new oscillations, my captors have apparently returned.

       I have no idea what time, or even day, it is.  Maybe these oppressors are bringing one of my regimented meals.  I don’t remember eating since the accident, and doubt I will be able to keep any food down, considering my seething stomach.  Still, my interior organs seem to be the only functional part of my body.  Aside from my heart, which has been working overtime for a while now; despite finally clotting, much of the blood in my system was expelled into a dark pool underneath me.

       If I know these crazies, they’re likely here to make another plea for me to sign their absurd letter.  This notice lays out all sorts of preposterous notions about how I manipulated the government and misallocated resources during my time in the Quebec parliament.  All absolute lies.

       Granted, political donations and infrastructure contracts are a fine line from an ethical standpoint.  While confident I was on the right side of the ledger legally, my conscience is more conflicted.

      My four assailants, who I’ve learned are part of the Chénier Cell within the broader Front de Liberation du Quebec operation, are relentless in their ill-fated revolutionary pursuits.  They don’t listen to my physical needs.  They refuse to believe my verbal rebuttals.  They ignore my pleas for medical support.  A cruel, ignorant, quartet of misguided young men.

       It’s still unclear exactly why I’ve been the next government official targeting in this convoluted FLQ scheme.  Based on requests that have been made of me over the past week, the motivations are broad and convoluted.

        The first document presented for me to autograph, which would apparently guarantee my immediate freedom, was a confession these clowns dubbed the “Magna Carta of Corruption”.  There’s a fine line between corruption and negotiation in my line of work.  I must serve the people in my constituency, mostly commonfolk, along with a few privileged enablers.

      My captors keep blabbering on about my connections to the Cotroni crime syndicate.  Sure, I have some business relationships with a few members of this upstanding Italian-Canadian family, but these are all strictly above-board transactions.  No mob boss bartering with paper bags of cash on my record.

       As a result, I’m not signing off on any written admission of wrongdoing.  Which is why I remain in the custody of these rebellious loonies.

      Apparently, they have offered up my release in exchange for 23 political prisoners currently held in various jails throughout Quebec.  This doesn’t seem like a very fair trade, considering the official government resources used to capture and prosecute all these criminals. 

         I’m not going to let this group use me as a trading chip to enable the freedom of a few dozen dangerous dissidents.  My political career aspirations and proud family lineage won’t stand for such transgressions.

       After earning my law degree in 1950, at 29 years old, I started my career as an investigative journalist, a gig that combined my penchants for research and writing.  Working for the popular Le Devoir newspaper, I focused on criticizing and exposing corruption within the Quebec “Union Nationale” administration under Premier Maurice Duplessis.

       I hounded this prominent politician relentlessly for nearly a decade, until he died in 1959, which conveniently opened the door to my own opportunity in government, as the Quebec Liberal party, on the far-left wing of the dogmatic spectrum, returned to power.

       My own partisan pursuits have been quite a rollercoaster.  As the grandson of a famous liberal figure in Quebec during the 1930s, legislative leadership is in my blood.

          I first joined government office in 1961 during a special selection, then was reelected in the normal cycle, serving as the Minister of Municipal Affairs from 1962 to 1966.  Unfortunately, my Quebec Liberal contingent, under Premier Jean Lesage, lost power in the 1966 election to the Union Nationale party, so I became relegated to the lowly opposition benches in government over the next 4 years.

       Canadian politics, and the voting constituency, have been quite erratic of late.  Which is how radical groups like the FLQ have gained an organic following.  This lawless lack of leadership needs to be fixed.  

       I consider myself an advocate for the common citizen, happy to provide social handouts to those in need.  My critics accuse me of adding pork barrel clauses into legislation, but my motives are pure, simply trying to get the most for the most in society.

     Last year, when Premier Lesage announced he was stepping down as leader of Quebec Liberal, the biggest opportunity of my political career arose.  A chance to be the top dog of the party.  However, despite substantial campaign finance resources, I failed to win this post in the primary election a few months back.

     My current role as Deputy Premier in the province of Quebec is influential, but doesn’t allow me to wield as much power as I’d hoped.  I’ve also been adorned with a menagerie of other titles, that allow effective governmental manipulation: Parliamentary Leader, Minister of Immigration, and Minister of Labour and Manpower.

      The last role is right up my alley, encompassing allocation of substantial budget resources.  I, and my close friends, were hoping for a Justice Minister posting, but I still have significant clout.

      Accusations of corruption regarding campaign financing are on the rise recently.  Such charges of bribery and fraud have come up several times during my decade in office serving the people.  I’m sure over the past 6 months, the Royal Canadian Mounted Police have had me and my buddies under surveillance.

      I openly admit connections to the infamous Cotroni gang.  While some folks consider this relationship inappropriate, I just treat these folks as another of the many business partners in my substantial rolodex.

      Understandably, the entire Cotroni family was excited about the prospects of me coming into power, and being able to influence various legislation favorable to their multitude of entrepreneurial ventures.  A symbiotic, mutually beneficial, relationship.

      My main contact is the owner of Victoria Club, a classy establishment where some potentially illegal gambling, and occasionally illicit female performers, are housed.  I spend a decent about of time at this bar.

     The briefcases of cash moved in and out of this venue by my compatriots and I, after lengthy strategy meetings on April 16th, May 3rd, and September 17th, are for various services rendered, and I have receipts to document all transactions.

     While I don’t have a personal security detail, I’m hoping there’s a motivated group with substantial resources currently trying to find me.  Not the official police department, but rather my Cotroni business buddies.

    With countless connections, both overt and covert, throughout the providence of Quebec, and specifically here in Montreal, these operatives should be able to sniff out this house where I’m being held.  I wonder why it’s taken nearly a week?

      Obviously, the local authorities aren’t making any progress.  If I escape this hellhole alive, there will be a substantial finder’s fee awarded.

       The shaking of the floor gets more pronounced, as the kidnapper’s approach my prostrate position.  Initially, I think the pair of partners latching onto my shoulders are hauling me to my feet, as I’m clearly too weak to rise on my own.  Maybe they’re leading me to the bathroom.  I don’t have many fluids left in the system, but cleaning some of these festering wounds would probably be a good idea for sanitation reasons.

      Another possibility bubbles to the surface, one which sparks the first glimmer of hope I’ve had since hearing the ambulance outside, and subsequentially jumping out the glass window.  That absurd act started the rapid downward spiral of both my bodily function and my morale.

       Hopefully this team has realized I need medical support well beyond their skill to administer, so are taking me to the hospital.   A journey that can lead to my freedom from captivity, and even more importantly, treatment of my substantial injuries.

       In my incapacitated state, it takes me much longer than it should to realize what’s actually happening.  The tells come when the pressure on my arms and back increases, as opposed to softening.  I’m being forced downward, into the dirty and hard ground, as opposed to upward, towards clean air and freedom.

      The full revelation occurs when I hear the sound of a heavy chain, a loud metallic clinking easily audible even through my damaged ears.  This sinister rattling is reminiscent of a sketchy scene in a crappy horror film.  However, in this case, the pending doom is all too real.

         The next sequence in the plot is when these chilly metal links touch my exposed neck, the greasy iron mingling with the skin, hair, and blood of my throat.  This doesn’t seem like standard protocol for saving a captive.

        I want to resist, but have no strength left.  My diminished body does provide one ancillary benefit, however brief.  The impending strangulation won’t take long.  As the shackle tightens around my windpipe, I grasp the absurd irony of the situation.

        The same leg restraint that stopped me from escaping, facilitated my debilitating injuries, and allowed my captors to haul me back in from, or is it into, the abyss, is now going to be the murder weapon.  In reality, my soul is already dead.

        During my last gasps of life, I seek pleasant memories from the past.  Enjoying a scrumptious Boxing Day meal with close family in Quebec.  Shaking hands with appreciative supports at a liberal left rally.  Playing cards with my diverse crew of friends at the Victoria Club.

       My last vision is of my beautiful wife, lying next to me in the hammock on a sunny day during the short Canadian summer.  Then I fall asleep, for the final time.

Consequence

        The victim of this odd sequence of events was Pierre Laporte, a renowned politician in eastern Canada, who held the title of Deputy Premier of Quebec at the time of his kidnapping.  Sitting Canadian Prime Minister Pierre Trudeau Sr. invoked the War Measures Act, enabling sweeping raids and arrests throughout Quebec, in order to snuff out the criminals, and find the pair of missing men, but to no avail.  Laporte’s body was discovered later in the day of his death, stashed in the trunk of a parked car at the Montreal airport.  The Cotroni gang, led by club owner D’Asti, also decided to seek Laporte using their covert connections, but their mark died before the plan could be put into action.

Complicit

         Members of the Chénier Cell, a far-left political faction, were arrested in a farmhouse south of Montreal at the end of 1970.  They admitted guilt, including the strangling of Laporte, though none took overt responsibility for the fatal act, and all 4 conspirators received 20 years in prison.  However, these characters were released much earlier, as part of political bartering which proved common in Quebec, as various cohorts came in and out of favor within the government.

Connection

       All these assassinations were politically motivated, often pitting those in power with those seeking to overthrow.  Governmental corruption plays a key role throughout, with varying levels of complicity, depending on one’s point of view regarding administrative overreach.  This was an incredibly violent and tumultuous decade in the United States, not just for prominent public figures, but for the citizenry as a whole.  While less publicized, their North American neighbors Mexico and Canada dealt with their own societal strife throughout the 1970s.